I’m still working through my issues with country music. I can’t hear refrains of Garth Brooks, or his alter ego Chris Gaines, without smelling the wafting aroma of Jack Daniels, which I can’t drink and makes me sick. I hear Willie Nelson and get the urge to scoop out my ears and pack my head with sawdust, it hurts so bad. I know every word of every George Strait song and it haunts me in the wee hours of the night. Brad Paisley and Kenny Chesney are to country music what the Simpson sisters are to pop. (ok, Ashley, Hard and Angry Pop.) The words and melody of Reba McEntire’s Fancy Don’t Let Me Down, while heartwarming, will not vacate the premises once someone lets them loose in my brain. It’s possible that I might be having a strong reaction to country music based on my upbringing which included a small Utah town where we had one radio station in town – country music, and everyone listened to the radio – country music, and concerts that came close were, yes, country music. And as a pre-pubescent teen and a full-fledged one, it was my job, nay, my calling and duty , to be different than those around me. So I listened to Wham, of course. And the Outfield. And INXS. And Def Leppard. Pour Some Sugar On Me, man. Just don’t ask me to be a prostitute so you can eat. And if you would have been there, you would have known that I chose to listen to that type of music solely to let Satan have access to my mind through the backmasting.
Yes, I’d say there are some issues there.
So, imagine my surprise a few years ago when I realized that I could enjoy Blue Grass without having any trickle-down-effect. And I’ve explored around a little and been loving it. This cd I picked up at Amoeba the other day = stellar. Iron Horse rocks.
